


Fidem Meam Toto (See How I Am Faithful)

by red_edelweiss



Series: The Lady And Her Kitty [4]
Category: French History RPF
Genre: Agressive Female Flirting, Bipolar Disorder, Dom/sub, Epistolary, F/M, Gentle femdom, Jealousy, Mythology References, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Period-Typical References, Poetic, Poetic Rivalry, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_edelweiss/pseuds/red_edelweiss
Summary: A collection of fictional love letters, written from a perspective of a young baroque poetess to one of the most powerful and most hated men of France. Heavens know, the cardinal's ever-worrying soul has a weakness for "ars bene dicendi", the art of beautiful talking, and no praise is sweeter for a lover than a reassuring one.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Lady And Her Kitty [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/970740
Kudos: 20





	1. Amber

My love,

you have eyes made of amber.

This was my thought when I looked into them for the first time. You turned your head, you waited expectantly for me to greet you – and I saw a pair of most beautiful ambers, surrounded by a meshwork of crow’s feet as if it was the finest bezel for such stones. I immediately bloomed then with a very feminine desire. I wanted to have those gems for myself. I wanted for your amber gaze to rest on my naked skin and to be my ornament.

Now I realize it’s not only about the color. Oh, it’s true that you have the warmest and the liveliest eyes of Paris – those precious brown orbs with golden hues in them. When you are in high spirits, they’re peaceful like autumn. In your happiness, they’re sweet as honey. In your fever, they burn like a flame. My two treasures, hidden from the world beneath two sets of dovish eyelashes. My two trinkets casted in bronze, stored in my loving memories. But above all – my pair of ambers.

Do you remember how ancients thought this gem was created? Phaeton was the son of god Helios - the brightest one among the gods, the ruler of the Sun. It didn’t save the young man from the misfortune. When he rode in his father’s gold chariot across the sky, he got too close to the earth, risking to burn it with the heat. Zeus was forced to struck him with a lightning bolt. The chariot fell into the river Eridanos, its swift waters becoming young Phaeton’s grave. Helios grieved his son, yet even his sorrow couldn’t be compared with the pain of Phaeton’s sisters. Each single one ran to the shore of Eridanos and mourned so dearly that their laments were finally heard by gods. Taking pity on the women, they turned them into trees and their tears changed into shards of the gem Greeks called “electron”.

Nowadays we know, of course, that this gem is a gift from the water and as its close proximity with this element suggests, physicians speak about its healing properties. Protecting from fever, shielding from sickness, bringing relief in pain… You eyes cause all this, my love, and more. They tame my anger, they ease my nerves, in melancholy they remind me how foolish my mood is if I have the greatest treasure in the world just a kiss, an embrace away from me. In happiness, seeing their shine doubles my joy, in lust, seeing their intensity doubles my pleasure. They are my light, my warmth, my solar talisman…

God, will I see them today? Will I?

The one,  
Who is yours.


	2. The Apple

My most feverish love,

for me, you are an apple.

Aren’t you dressing in red too? Aren’t you blushing as easily, covering your paleness with budding rouge? Underneath the redness, underneath the cover, pale flesh is to be found. It’s slightly cool to touch, perfectly smooth, as your skin is. It invites to open one’s mouth, to slightly stick out one’s tongue.

The tongue wants to press against the hardness, lips want to suck out the juiciness from the core. Oh, how tempting it is to run one’s hand over the perfect surface, to bite down to taste, to leave the mark of teeth after giving in to the temptation. Yet, aside from sensual pleasure, aside from being an autumnal treat, an apple is so much more… so much more.

It is the fruit from Eden, the last souvenir humanity has from those happy times. It is the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the one God blessed with His favor, the one most valuable, most sacred in the whole garden He created. An apple, with its roundness and a stem, is an orb, just like globus cruciger King of France holds as a part of his regalia. The orb lies in his right hand, surely and steadily, a symbol, a seal, a manifestation of right, of King’s power. Made out of gold and studded with rubies, it shines, enriching the person of the King.

Finally, it was an apple that caused Eve’s fall. And when I look at you… 

I don’t ask for Heaven’s forgiveness because they know my thoughts well. I want to keep touching, holding, biting and swallowing, and pay the price of exile. To stay in Eden and be forbidden from thinking about you… That would turn any paradise into an empty desert.

Shall you offer me a bite?

Eternally,  
The one who is yours


	3. Bernini's Sculptures

My most graceful love,

Bernini’s marbles lose a lot if compared to you – the whiteness of your body makes them look dirty, the smoothness of your skin makes them look unpolished; the expressiveness of your face reminds they’re merely stones. Although Italian’s talent is doubtlessly grand, I don’t think the hours he spends on creating could ever produce a similar masterwork. His sculptures are frozen in time – you are the one that breathes and moves. His sculptures show only a moment – you are the one constantly changing. His sculptures imitate reality – you resemble Galatea, an art brought to life.

Each night when I feel your body under mine, each night when I look down on your face, I see a masterpiece that no chapel or chateaux could ever mesmerize me with. The curve of your brows, the length of your eyelashes, the life in your eyes, the line of your nose, the shape of your lips… Everything created to show, to adhere to the golden rules making nowadays art exactly what it is – an art. In pain or in ecstasy, you are beautiful. In your intensity, you are beautiful. In your emotion, you are beautiful. I cannot stop looking, I don’t want to stop looking and I feel exactly the same as those, who gaze at Bernini’s sculptures.

My masterpiece, my Galatea, my passion, my prayer, my enthrallment, my act of creation. I am an artist too, you know – even if I and Bernini choose different ways to shape our worlds. But one thing we do have in common. We are greedy for beauty. We want everything beautiful to be an effect of our work, our actions, our hands, words, desires, breathes, heartbeats.

Will you ease my greed and allow me to visit you this evening?

I miss seeing you in ecstasy.

Eternally,  
Yours


	4. Autumn

Dear autumn,

yes, you read that right. You’re autumn. You’re such a beautiful, changeable, always vivid autumn.

Your hair, your brows, your eyelashes like morning mists, light, delicately grey. Your skin, fair and pale like the skies at noon. Your moods darkening your face like passing clouds, your gentle tears, their salty taste. Your long, graceful fingers like first night chills, cold yet refreshing in their own right.

And then, then you explode with color. You are the grayness, yes, the silver, yes, but you are also an effusion of rich shades meant to mesmerize. Your eyes bright like the autumn sun, eyes golden with life just like leaves changing their colors. The carmine of your robes like a fire that doesn’t burn, a peaceful fire that paints the whole world in rubin-like hue, intense, vivid. The voice, sweet to me like the last autumnal echoes of warm days, so much warmer than any other time of the year could provide.

Autumn, the time of harvests. Autumn, the most generous of seasons that gives, gives, gives, relentlessly, to everyone, even though they often don’t realize it. Autumn, the most awaited, the one people prepare for the most – even if at the same time, they always seem to resent it. For them, these months are the gateway to winter. They curse cold rains and days, not noticing that autumnal sunshine is the warmest, its colors are the most vibrant, its harvests – the most plentiful. They don’t know that autumn prepares for the winter, not threatens with it, for winter comes regardless, whether people want it or not.

My autumn. Always changeable, always vivid, always generous. Always beautiful. Always both in reds and greys, always in contrasts. My autumn, torn between the warmest of sunshines and the most freezing of frosts, both happening at the same time, in the same day.

Autumn – never far away from the summer. Autumn, the only season who has the right to follow summer. Autumn that eases summer’s storms, that reflects summer’s heat in its own ways.

My autumn that I love with all I am.

My autumn.

Your Summer


	5. Sainthood

My love,

would it be too much to call you a saint?

Your hands are the most obvious sign… They’re beautiful when the skin is unmarred and whole. They are white like ivory, cool to the touch like pearls. Your smooth palms and two sets of five fingers, their sight lovely, their touch delicate and skilled, as their caresses are able to bring my body pleasure I would seek in vain on my own. I love them dearly in their whiteness. Yet, I know that when they are soaked in red, it is then when they need care the most - when your stigmata reappear and blood drips from opened wounds. I know that even now, when reading, your first instinct is to hide them underneath the robe, as they were a source of shame. No. Don’t.

The tradition of Catholic Church makes a strong connection between the sainthood and the martyrdom. If our Lord suffered, then why your wounds should not be holy to me? I have yet to hear about a saint who wasn’t surrounded by scorn and hostility at some point in their lives – just like you are now. Why your struggles should be worth less? Why your tears should not be considered noble?

Stigmata is, of course, not enough to make a saint. A martyr, a blessed one, yes, but not a saint. To recognize a true sainthood, miracles are needed. But I’ve seen you performing them too. Day after day, tirelessly. I can see them in your work.

How many times you won a battle that was not meant to be won? How many times you prevented a failure that would’ve cost the state dearly? Such deeds couldn’t be performed by someone of a less acute mind, someone not filled with such deep devotion as you are. Your faith in higher cause carries you forward. You pray, you believe and you perform, overcoming in a day problems that would render weaker men powerless. What is your work, if not a constant demand for miracles? What is your work, if not bending laws of reality to your will? You perform miracles, love, like every saint does.

What about an intercessory prayer? Every day you are familiar with being asked, pleaded and begged – to convince the king, to mention a name in his presence, to open a door that remains closed. And if that is not enough of an argument to you... My love, shall I tell you about myself instead? Your name is always present in my heart, it lingers sweetly on my lips when I pronounce it. Whispering it daily it’s as important to me as morning and evening prayers. My first thought of the day goes to you, my last thought before sleeping is yours. A day without speaking it is worse than wasted, it’s a sin of negligence.

Shall I also tell just how important to me are your gifts? You are generous beyond comparison, my love. I cannot imagine leaving my bedchamber without wearing something you presented to me in the past – be it gloves, ribbons, clothing, jewelry. I act just like a religious person who must always wear a golden chain with a portrait of their saint patron. I collect relics from your personal things. Once, I sneakily stole a quill from your desk without telling you, the same I am writing these words with, and I still shiver at the thought that you held it in your hands. As your letters arrive to me, I kiss them in silly hope you can feel it. 

I’ll let you on one more secret, my sweet one, why in my eyes you are a saint. Do you know how beautiful you look on your knees? When you first did it in front of me, I forgot to breathe and even after all this time, I am still captured by this sight. When you kneel before me, my world limits itself to the sound of your slowly steading breaths, to the soft touch of your locks under my fingertips. In such moments, when your hands reach out for my dress, I see and feel nothing but you… When I put a single finger under your chin and I make you look up and I meet your beautiful eyes, your suffering, passionate eyes, and I see them finally at peace… Only then, each time anew, I understand. I understand God’s love.

For only He in His everlasting grace could ever send me a man, who both in demeanor and in heart resembles so much an angel.

The anguish you experience so intensively is holy like Christ’s passion. Your devotion to the state and the king rivals only this of archangels. Although you are treated with unfriendliness, you’re still standing by the sheer power of your faith. And for me… Ah, for me. You made me believe in guardian angels, for you must be mine. You care, you wait, you never leave, you serve willingly and in such a wonderful way, you fill up my whole heart to the brim.

It all awes me, as it would awe any simple mortal… Still, I know what it means and I find it my pride that Our Lord declared my love to be enough for one of His angels. I also know what is expected of me and why my auburn tresses merge so smoothly with the color of your robes.

I will keep on proving I deserve you, my devoted one. Since you want serve me as you do, my soul is created to have you, to hold you and keep through all times. My saint. My angel. My proof of God’s immeasurable love. My Adam in Eden, the one for me for the rest of eternity.

Your Eve


	6. Nothing New

My Indescribable One,

what is worth my talent if I cannot describe you, if before you my words fall short?

There is apparently nothing new under the Sun, if one looks with an eye that’s careful enough. Love, hate and death never change through the centuries. A day has always lasted twenty four hours, either for us or for our ancestors. Then why I let myself be enraptured anew by the most repetitive of things?

The way you narrow your eyes when deep in thought. The way ends of your silvery locks fall on your shoulders, either covered by carmine of your robe or white as marble when naked. The way your quiet voice pronounces words I heard a thousand times before in many conversations. The way your breath hitches in nervous eagerness upon opening your most secret letters.

I know the way you move, talk - I learn your moods like poems, stanza by stanza, always by heart, to be able to conjure each syllable in my mind’s eye whenever I desire. Yet, whenever I sit down to write and call what I can see with a proper name… Whenever I try to describe what my eyes witness… There is always a moment when my words fall short. There is always the point at which my talent, as exquisite as it might be, is not enough. I cross out sentences, I tear apart whole pages. I appraise the adjectives like a jeweler does with gems under a magnifying glass and with a similar distaste I realize, how few of them meet my standards. I construct sentences like necklaces, rings, bracelets and brooches, using “amber”, “pearls”, “rubins”, “silver”... And because my trade is far more mysterious than a jeweler’s fate, I can even steal “shards of starry glass” from a “full moon sky”, I can grip “the first mists of the autumn”, I can even storm the Heavens for “seraphim’s generosity” or “the pride of Eden”...

I can do so much and I yearn to adorn you with the poems and praise I create. Surely enough, they look satisfying on a piece of paper, a sign of my skill, my mark on the artistic firmament. But afterwards, when I meet you in person and I can see everything that you are… With disbelief, I realize my jewellery I felt so proud of pales in comparison to who you are. It means to adorn but it is degraded to something laughable. “Pearls” and “first mists” are not enough to compliment.

Again, I learn everything anew, with an obsession only madmen or lovers are capable of. Again, I am sure that I learned everything by heart. If heart fails, then fingertips must remember, then ears can recall, I can swear I can taste you underneath my tongue. I create, I erect once again my precious constructions of “ivory” and “hymns of the Song of Songs”, only to be humbled again. And again. And again…

What are you made of to be like this, my love? An angel’s silent power? A flash of light that children run after before they learn they’re never able to catch it? The essence of lands still undiscovered which hide their riches and riddles from the humankind?

One day, I will find the words. One day, I’ll make a piece of artistic jewellery you are worth of. Until this day, I should hone my trade as every craftsman, I shall watch you like an artist getting ready to make a sketch. I shall learn what phrases fit your taste the most and which ones leave you unmoved. And then, maybe then, at last I’ll know I call you like you truthfully should be called.

For now, I can do only this.

There is apparently nothing new under the sun, if one looks with an eye that’s careful enough. You, however, manage to awe me in the most grandiose and the simplest of ways. Never one day is identical to the other and like the Moon, the lunar phases of your moods go from the new moon, to the crescent one, to the full one. The delicateness of your steps rivals the silk, the frame of your body is the most beautiful construction, its proportions so harmonious that even perfectly planned sculptures fail to recreate them.

There is apparently not a new thing under the Sun, yet each day I discover something new in you.

That must only mean, my love, that you are above the Sun.

Your poetess


	7. The Concert

*******

My love,

how spectacular was that last night! How brilliant was the music. How feverish were preparations I took part in. How overwhelming was your presence, your familiar, beloved presence, for everything was made for you and your guests.

You gave me two gifts yesterday. The first one was your desire to see me as a part of your suite. An artist is always flattered and joyful when a patron wants her in his procession among fellow Muses. It gave me an opportunity to take part in a truly marvelous spectacle, to laugh quietly and banter with these lovely musicians. I even had a chance to look upon the Queen herself… How grateful I am for that. And yet, the second gift you gave me, far greater, was the privilege of being allowed in the same room as you when in public. I am your poet, true, but I am also a woman in love. Other people see in you the First Minister, the right hand of the king, their patron, their protector, their rich host – in my eyes, you’re my lover and I cherish your presence as such.

The Queen seemed to be entertained, even if I saw in your eyes that you weren’t exactly satisfied with the conversation you two lead. You spoke a lot, while her replies seemed to be rather curt. I must admire Her Majesty for the resolve – had I been in her place, with you sitting so near as to be able to catch a smell of your perfume, I’m sure my sentences would have been much longer than hers and your eyes would have been much less dimmed.

Therefore, I was twice as happy when I observed that your orbs had been reclaiming their spark anew, my sweet one, each time I stepped before the musicians to talk to the gathering or to announce the next composition. I hoped that my attire was to your liking but one look at you provided me with a satisfying answer. When you saw me for the first time, one of your hands, the left one, I think, quickly darted to your face to nervously stroke your lower lip. My skin likes warmth colors and I know how good I look in yellow. King displays a certain wisdom by claiming this shade as his favorite color, I always say. Tell me, love, did my neck, my chest, my arms glow that night? Your expression seemed to confirm my efforts. I know that the lack of powdered cheeks gained me some curious looks from the circle of ladies. You are aware that I like to keep a certain level of modesty. I am, after all, bounded by an oath and women who are no longer free shouldn’t look for ways to entice strangers on purpose by rouge.

I wish you could look only at me through the whole evening… I knew that was impossible, so I at least made sure you could hear me each time you leaned back in your armchair during a moment of silence. That you could hear my laughter as I danced among the musicians, collecting old notes and distributing new ones. That you could hear my questions to the conductor, hear me engaging in conversations people standing close to me.

I was proposed to sit down on one of the stools lined up against the wall, but in truth, I didn’t want to. I’ll tell you in secret why – I had a foolish want to be able to run to you at the smallest sign you could have required assistance I was able to provide. A dropped glove, pillow slipping from your back and falling onto the floor? I wanted to be the one to pick them up. Two times, when I had to stroll to you to consult which composition would be chosen to be played first, I was able to accidentally put my hand on the pillow you leaned against, the pillow that supported your head and your arms. So close to touching you! So close to pressing my palm against your shoulder and feeling the fluff of the ermine fur of your robe and underneath it, the hardness of your lithe, slender frame! How my palm burned due to closeness between us. How your glances from beneath your long eyelashes tempted me. You found the usual delight in having to look up at me to answer; your eyes told me that, the shadow of a smile in the corner of your lips told me that.

My pride is satisfied that you found me a worthy, refreshing _intermezzo_ between one fugue and another, between the Queen and your other guests. I felt your eyes on me each time I spoke loudly to the gathered audience. Once I caught you turning your head to look at me as I rushed behind you from one side to another. Tell me, love, was I mistaken or when that charming violinist was showing me his graceful instrument, you did frown and fidget anxiously in your seat?

You couldn’t look at me as often as you would have liked but I am luckier in this regard, because nothing forbids me from feasting my eyes on you, even in public. In your robes, my desire is tangled, between your long, delicate fingers, my lust sleeps, ready to be awaken with a gesture, with a touch. I think your hair got a bit longer since I saw you last week – the silver of their ends now merges with white fur on your shoulders, I don’t think it was the case before.

My love allowed me to see him yesterday, to oversee the concert played for Her Majesty’s and his pleasure. Will he also find time to let me see him in private this week? You looked so fazingly yesterday, no other man in the room could compare. I want nothing more than to undress you from the fur you had on your shoulders that day, slowly, with care. I want to prove once more that as a poet I strive for nothing more than to adore with my words what I keep in my heart in a well-guarded secret.

Your Euphrosyne


	8. Curses

My Demanding One,

today a pamphlet about you somehow found its way into my hands. I shall refrain myself from repeating its text to you. I’m sure that you probably already had the dubious pleasure of discovering it. The poet in me appreciates the style and talent, the loving woman curses the author, the jester tempts to write a response and the wise maiden advises to cease the frivolity and instead, take a lesson from it all.

You must know, my love, that each time I come across a rhymed insult to your name, I am humbled. Hurt, angry – but also humbled. I am familiar with the concept of poetic rivalry and have yet to see a more formidable view than a gleam in artists' eyes as they try to create. God gave them tongues to speak and gave them fingers to write. They have a right to put their syllables against my syllables in an attempt to silence me. Birds on the branches always try to outsing each other, each one trying for clearer, longer melodies than its kin. This is merely a part of nature. Surely God cannot hold it against me that I despise them as a man would despise his rivals. The ones I want to battle using my weapon of choice – rhymes and wits. They steal your attention from me, love, they try to turn my sweetness into poison and nothing is as irritating as when they accidentally manage to sound graceful while doing that. It’s merely a responsibility of mine to outsing them to the best of my skill, don’t you agree?

Yet, there is a lesson to be taken from that last pamphlet, so irritatingly graceful and biting. The mask of praise hid insincere devotion, those verses speaking of your supposed wickedness like of a virtue to be had… After such mockery, how can my compliments sound truthful in comparison? My opponent was clever and I stand weaponless in this battle, he disarmed me. Clever, very clever.

Maybe it’s time for me to admit that the negation is not always a way to answer. But what if, instead of denying the poison of false praise, I shall just agree with it? What if instead of praising, I shall curse your name, hiding in my curse the sweetness, just like they hid daggers underneath their praise?

You repeat that you are a burden to me and maybe, in a way, there is wisdom in your words I haven’t yet considered, my love.

You are the sickness of the heart sick ones are thankful to suffer from. You are the challenge that changes ordinary people into those worthy of respect. You are the wound saints pray to receive as a sign of Lord’s mercy; when they get it, they sing hymns with tears flowing down their cheeks. You are a stigma that is received with ecstasy and thankfulness by God-fearing ones. You are the fire that burns and never hurts. You are the Heaven that is promised only after death. You are a wrathful storm that comes at the end of a draught. You are Lent that slows the pace of life and cleanses the conscience and soul. You are Love and in your every breath, word, look and touch, you come from God.

The first time we met, I was almost nobody and once I left your rooms, I was even less, for you took my heart from me. You claim to see my strength, but this is the strength of those who have nothing more to lose – what am I supposed to protect if you already seized peace from me? You are the ever-changing fate and fortune of my life – when I see your smiles, I am the richest woman in Jerusalem. When I see your pain, I am less than a beggar, a dust of the earth. This glorious city of Paris feels like my home only because its center hides you, like a jewel case hides a precious pearl. Each time people and responsibilities separate us, I am Odysseus the Cunning, the king who lost his way, who plots and travels but whose eyes always look in the direction of Ithaca with longing no adventure can chase away. Despite my prideful claims I roam freely, I circle around you, inching closer and closer, waiting for the direction of the wind to change, waiting for years to pass, waiting for my return. You are a burden, my dear. You are as much of a burden as Fortune, Fate and God are, and without such burdens, I would not exist.

Do I sound truthful now, my love? As truthful as them, when they mockingly applaud what they perceive as your sins?

When the thief of my heart plans to summon me again? So his laugh can render me helpless again, so his arms and neck, straining under my kisses, will make me lose my mind. My merciless one, your presence is the only remedy to this misery you have caused and you stint me even that relief. The cruel one. Deal with what must be done first and then send me a letter, for you must receive an appropriate punishment. I will put you in chains of my arms and take you my prisoner. Will you give me back my heart? No? You refuse to comply? Then I fear you will not be freed before the first rays of the dawn. You ingenious thief.

The Wronged One


	9. Colors of Emotions

My love,

emotions have colors. Sadness has the color of salt mixed with blueness and a smudge of greyness on top of it, like a last note in a song. Happiness is emerald-white, vivid, inside which is hidden a drop of dark purple as a warning, threatening to break to the surface. Anger is even more vivid than happiness, orange like a fire, changing from black to orange and to black again, it is unstable and distrustful. But your moods... My incomparable one. My demanding one. Your moods are something entirely different.

You are moody. Some would call it a flaw in a man of your cleverness and status. However, you manage to display features of your character in such a way that even after a longer study of your personality, I am unable to say where your virtues end and flaws start. They overlap and whatever you have difficulty with, that makes your victories so much grander. Therefore, your moodiness is at the same time one of your merits, because it makes resolve shine that much brighter. Does it mean that the moody ones are the most stoic of them all?

Your despair is black. Black like a night sky without clouds, without moon and stars, when cold is biting. Despair is black with the silvery dust upon it, like metal and bitterness of blood.

Your shame is white, pale, not like snow but like a pearl because it serves the same purpose - to adorn, to enrich in value. On the surface of the pearl some other shade is always reflected and this is why they are so highly praised.

Your anger is blue. Blue because it has to be discovered first. It is blue and deep, like a watery depth, it is a colorless mirror with its bottom hidden. To reach the depth, one must be prepared to choke, to lose breath, to never let their guard down and never be fooled by the treacherous lightweightness of blue. The closer to the bottom, the darker your despair gets, blue turning into black.

Your peace is yellow, yellow like gold, heavy and comforting like one. It shines but never blinds, it adds but never overwhelms. Oh, do not mistake peace with happiness; your happiness is orange-black on the surface, fiercely purple from the inside, always threatening to mix. Your happiness is more unstable than anger in other people. But your peace is golden, calmly confident in itself.

Your annoyance is of a spinel color, pinkish with thin veins of whiteness marking it, linking questions of “who”, “what”, “where” and “why”. Pink hides in the tight grimace of your lips and in the corners of your eyes when you knit your eyebrows.

Your pleasure… What color is your pleasure? Is it the deeply red color of wax? Is it the color of my hair? Is it a white yet creamy pearl? Is it green, brown? Is it the specific color of paper you’re holding now in your hands?

Invite me and I shall study your pleasure until I learn how to describe it.

Your ever diligent,

Observer.


End file.
